


and death makes equal the high and low

by thebetterbina



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Wolverine and the X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, Gen, and that comes with an interesting set of responsibilites, except the graves he manages is strictly for superheroes, lots of mentions of death, or gravedigger, peter is a burial ground custodian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19186129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: Peter smiles as he holds up the batch of sugary treats, fresh, one of the few things he’s knitted into his daily routine because the cemetery isn’t by any means normal—and superheroes crawling out of their earthly confines coming out traumatized and as shocked as a newborn to the world has become something Peter is used to.Peter is a burial ground custodian.prompt: you maintain a cemetery where the league of superheroes bury their fallen. your job is mostly chasing off graverobbers, gently reminding the brooding antiheroes that the cemetery closes at nine, and giving shock blankets and tea to the heroes who crawl out of their own graves





	and death makes equal the high and low

**Author's Note:**

> unbetad, catch me with those mistakes ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> i guess you could call this a cute pet sematary au

Peter wipes the last bit of grime off his forehead, huffing before gently putting the shovel down—it’s a shallow grave, just like always, but it’s still hard work to get everything in the right proportions for the caskets of different sizes that come in.

 

It’s dark out now, the sun long having set some hours before and casting the same hazy fog over the cemetery. It’d be creepy for most people, but for Peter it’s the nearest thing he can definitively call home—familiarity and all. He should rightfully head back in to his cabin, but it’s not as if he’s tired either; most of his waking hours were spent during the day to tend to the funerals and then the night when he’d have to prepare the graves. Maintenance was done in the quiet of the evening, and any hour he can squeeze in-between his quaint little job he sleeps.

 

There's the crunch of leaves and his head snaps upwards to the sound, brows immediately furrowing and mouth set in a thin, displeased frown at the sight of brief flashes of light. Normal people would know well enough the cemetery closed at nine, and Peter doesn’t take well to trespassers past that strictly regulated time.

 

He picks up the shovel again.

 

A yowl of pain or two later the graverobbers are chased off the protected area.

 

Peter briefly considers installing electric fences.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sky casts a blistering orange mirage across the sky, one that blurs off into pink signifying the nearing end to the day. He feels the sweat of the day seep into his skin, and sighs against the cooling air. He blearily notes he should be making another round.

 

Normally there aren’t many lingering around this time of the day, visitors came either early in the crisp morning when dew still dotted the grass or during the evening before the sun began to set.

 

But of course, there are outliers to that trend.

 

Logan is almost a permanent fixture in the cemetery, Peter’s smart enough to know the guy doesn’t want to be bothered when he visits and he never fails to give the man the space he needs even though he does burn with curiosity to ask. But Peter never does, has too much tact, knows enough about grief that it’s something personal—an intrinsic part of a person that it’s not something to be given up lightly either.

 

If they share, Peter listens. If they don’t, Peter listens anyways.

 

“Hey.” He starts softly, quietly, making sure his footsteps are audible to lessen any scare he might give. Peter had learned the first few times his ability to sneak around without so much of a wrinkle in the air was something the grieving didn’t exactly appreciate.

 

Logan returns a cursory glance, not saying a word.

 

“I lock the gates at nine.”

 

He gives a brief nod, that’s about all the conversation they make.

 

Peter walks off, and when he goes to close up he notes the little care-package by the gate; simple biscuits, snacks. Logan’s own, special way of communication.

 

Peter makes a mental note to allow Logan more time to brood if he wants to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Deadpool is another common figure. The guy has died more times than Peter can count but doesn’t understand why he keeps insisting on getting buried when they all know he regenerates even after getting blasted to smithereens.

 

Not that Peter minds, Deadpool is by far the chattiest visitor he gets and it’s a good change from all the silent glances and the dead quiet of the unspeaking graves.

 

“Petey—looking gorgeous as ever!”

 

“Hey Pool, what was it this time?”

 

“Oh you know, the usual asshole with a bomb—ohhhhh are those _cookies_?”

 

Peter smiles as he holds up the batch of sugary treats, fresh, one of the few things he’s knitted into his daily routine because the cemetery isn’t by any means normal—and superheroes crawling out of their earthly confines coming out traumatized and as shocked as a newborn to the world has become something Peter is used to.

 

He passes a steaming mug to Deadpool, who takes the tea with glee. Rolling up the bottom of his mask just as Peter wraps the traditional thick woolen blanket around the mercenary. At this point it’s a little unnecessary, Deadpool isn’t exactly in shock when he comes back from the dead but Peter also knows Deadpool isn’t complaining.

 

“So, how many so far tonight?” The mercenary asks, genuine curiosity in his tone as he munches on the batch of chocolate chip cookies.

 

“Mm, just you for now. But you know, I’m prepared.” Peter smiles in return, patting the little supply he has on hand. Waiting for the dead supers to rise just being one of the few things he does. He has about another four blankets, a full jug of chamomile tea and over a dozen cookies left. Another fresh batch baking in the oven just in case.

 

He never really knows how many might crawl out for the night, the most he’s ever gotten was three in one go but he’s always prepared to handle a little more.

 

Deadpool gives a hum in return, then launches into a distracted babble of the job that got him blown up. Peter doesn’t mind, nods on occasion and asks a question or two that Deadpool happily answers.

 

He doesn’t notice by the time morning comes, it’s barely the crack of dawn as the first blues of the sky peek out over the horizon—but there’s a blanket around him and the remainder batch of cookies are gone. Left in place are some wildflowers stitched in a crown and a sticky note attached beside it, the words are written in crayon scrawl most people would assume belonged to a child.

 

_Only mi 2nite, get sum gud rest. Thnks 4 the_

 

Then it’s a doodle of what Peter assumes is a cookie and Deadpool’s signoff.

 

He stretches his limbs, wincing at the cracking sounds of bones being set, stands up to pat himself off and makes his way to the little cabin with his flowers, smiling, humming softly all the way long.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter yeehaw [@therealconnor60](https://twitter.com/therealconnor60)


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